Novos contos da Montanha

Era de sua natureza um tipo macambúzio, de olhos grandes e vidrados, boca rasgada e um espeso bigode a cair-lhe da cara.

Can you describe a chap more simply and completely in twenty-two words?

Spent a dozen years living in the country has given me the opportunity to learn a little about the land, the history and about its people.

I´ve heard the songs of Dulce Pontes and Rodrigo Leão, I´ve seen some paintings by Josefa de Óbidos and Paula Rego, the experience of the ‘three little shepherds’ and even the entry into prison of José Sócrates.

But until recently I didn´t know that there was a writer called Miguel Torga.

It was in the Jornal de Notícias newspaper, on Sunday, July 14 last, that a booklet dedicated to Sabrosa and its concelho appeared and where I found a reference to the new Espaço Miguel Torga in São Martinho de Anta.

A fiada estava apinhada naquela noite. Mulheres, homens e crianças. As mulheres a fiar, a dobar ou a fazer meias, os homens a fumar e a conversar, e a canalhada a dormitar ou nas diabruras do costume.

According to Luís Sequeira, director of Espaço, the exhibition aims to reflect both the man and the writer he was.

The report is also complemented by four snapshots of the place: part of the exhibition gallery, the house (which will be a house-museum in this same year), the facade of the building (discreet and rustic) and what appears to be the trunk, large, stunning of a dry tree. Of the four photographs, it´s the latter that has caught my attention the most. What kind of tree is it? How old would it be when it died? What does it mean? I´ve got it!

A tyrant is the same as the farmer who plants a dry tree and persists in believing that it will flourish.

Now I know that Miguel Torga was the writer and that Adolfo Correia da Rocha was the man committed to his time and that he didn´t resign to follow the guidelines of behaviour that, in Portugal, ordered Mr Salazar and executed the PIDE.

Enxuto e quente, o Garrinchas dispôs-se então a cear. Tirou a navalha do bolso, cortou um pedaço de broa e uma fatia de febra, e sentou-se. Mas antes da primeira bocada a alma deu-lhe um rebate e, por descargo de consciencia, ergueu-se e chegou-se à entrada da capela. O clarão do lume batia em cheio na talha dourada e enchia depois a casa toda.

From my Borstal.

LDR

http://espacomigueltorga.pt/